


Hostage

by Mousedm



Category: Diagnosis Murder
Genre: Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:56:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mousedm/pseuds/Mousedm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve is taken hostage and Mark tries to save him before it’s too late</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfic story I ever wrote - quite a while ago. The formatting got totally messed up on Fanfic.net so I decided to move all my stories here even if nobody reads them!

Disclaimer: “Diagnosis Murder” and the other characters in it are owned by CBS and Viacom and are merely being borrowed here for recreational, non profit purposes.

Acknowledgments: This story is for Nonny. I never intended to write one, I just liked reading hers but she suggested, supported, encouraged, dealt with writer’s anxiety and blocks and finally proofread and explained how to make my computer upload to this site when it didn’t want to comply. Thanks Nonny, you are a wonderful friend!

 

Chapter 1

"Thanks for the ride, son." Mark tried to suppress a yawn as he relaxed deeper into the passenger seat of Steve's car, his whole body aching with exhaustion. 

"No problem." The glance Steve threw his father was compounded of equal parts affection and concern. "Rough day, huh?" He had heard of the train wreck on the radio and guessed the Community General ER had been swamped. He hadn't seen his father since he left for work the previous morning, and now the morning rush hour was rolling round again. A 24 hour shift at his father's age was no joke. He knew Amanda and Jesse would do their best do prevent Mark from overdoing things but as Chief of Internal Medicine, his responsibilities were extensive.

"Mmmmm," Mark nodded his affirmation but was reluctant to add any more, wanting to leave the pandemonium of the job behind. He was silent for several minutes, and Steve thought he had fallen asleep, when he turned back to his son with a mischievous grin. "So, how was the hot date last night?"

Only someone who knew Steve as well as his father did would have noticed the slight grimace his innocent enquiry elicited, and he sank back into his seat, closing his eyes again. "Not so good, huh?"

Steve sighed, amused and, if he admitted it to himself, touched by his father's fascination with his love life. "She dumped me." Now it was his turn for reticence. Silence resumed in the car, but out of the corner of his eye Steve could see his father looking at him expectantly. He managed to preserve the silence for one minute more before that hopeful look forced him to continue. He had never been able to keep secrets from his father. "Apparently I'm too ....." He stopped, unable to finish, and was relieved when it was obvious his dad was going to let him off the hook. He tried to conceal the hurt under a flippant tone, but knew his father wasn't fooled. He shrugged. "Don't worry Dad, she wasn't the right one; you'll get those grandchildren yet".

The car stopped at a red light, and Mark yawned again, rubbing his forehead. "Go to sleep, Dad. The traffic's awful. I'll wake you up when we get home."

Mark complied, resting his head back on the car seat, but as he was drifting off, he was rudely awakened by an urgent voice on the radio.

"Shots fired on 5th and Elm. Officer down. All units in the vicinity please respond."

A jolt of adrenaline banished all thought of sleep, and Mark turned to his son "That's only two blocks away!"

Steve was only too aware of the location. Torn between duty and protectiveness towards his father, he hesitated, hand on the radio, inwardly cursing the timing that placed him so near a potentially dangerous situation with his father in the car. He knew from bitter experience that his father's safety was the most important consideration to him. He remembered telling an over-zealous officer endangering his father in his pursuit of a felon, "Yeah, I'm a cop, but I'm a son first." But this situation was not cut and dried, and he owed a fellow cop his assistance.

Mark read the emotions flickering over his son's face. "Go," he urged gently. "I'll stay in the car, scout's honour." He could tell when Steve reached his decision as the muscle in his jaw clenched and he muttered an invective that Mark pretended not to hear. 

“And you were never a Scout,” he added more loudly. Turning on his siren and lights, he hastily responded with his intent on the radio but before setting off he jumped out of the car and grabbed some equipment from the trunk. He threw a flack jacket at his father with the terse command of "Put that on," and only then took off.

The brakes screeched as Steve pulled to a halt behind another police car where a uniformed officer crouched, gun pointing towards a liquor store. "Get out and stay down behind the car," he ordered, burying his concern as a son beneath his professional police persona. He guided his dad out, hand on his shoulder keeping him low until he was satisfied he was as safe as could be given the situation then he moved forward to the other cop.

"Sloan, homicide," he introduced himself, briefly taking his eyes off the building to assess the other man. It was impossible to miss the relief on the younger cop's face as he tacitly relinquished charge of the situation to the more experienced officer.

"Matthews, 25th precinct. My partner just went in for some snacks. Next thing I knew there were shots fired, and when I tried to enter, they fired at me." The rookie's voice was tinged with shock, clearly this was his first trial of fire.

"Any idea how many perps? How many hostages?" Steve tried to draw out the information without causing any further self-castigation on the part of the rookie. Johnson shook his head.

"I think... I don't know.... I think there was more than one gun fired and I saw a couple enter around the same time as Brad. Uh Brad Johnson, that’s my partner" he added somewhat unnecessarily.

As Steve continued to debrief the young cop, moving back after a while to talk on the radio, Mark divided his attention between his son and the bustling activity around. More police cars pulled up and the tension mounted as the cops waited, guns leveled. Eventually, Steve worked his way back to his father and hustled him into the control van parked outside the immediate danger area.

"Dad, let me find someone to take you home. This could take a while. We've got at least two perps and a hostage situation. So far there's been no contact with those inside. SWAT and a negotiator are on their way but they're held up in traffic, and for now I'm in charge"

"You also have possibly injured hostages and need a doctor around," Mark argued. He smiled affably at his son, letting him know he had no intention of going anywhere. Despite the circumstances, Steve couldn't prevent an answering grin from lighting up his face. He would have preferred getting his father as far away as possible, but he conceded the point.

"I could probably use your help assessing the mental state of the captors. We need to make contact ASAP." He handed Mark a pair of earphones and sat down in the front of the van next to the driver. Taking a deep breath, he dialed the number he had been given for the store.

The voice that answered on the other end sounded young, belligerent and not far from panic. 

"You try anything and I'll kill them. I swear I will. I don't want to see a stinking cop or I'll blow these people away. You hear me?"

Steve kept his own voice firm but as unthreatening as possible as he tried to calm down the young felon and defuse the situation, but the phone was slammed down at the other end.

"He's dangerously unstable," offered Mark. "You're doing fine, the more you can keep him talking and allay his fears, the safer those people will be. All the fire power out here would panic anyone."

Steve reluctantly agreed and sent his second in command, Sergeant Mark Adams, to pull the men out of obvious range before picking up the phone again.

"We want the same thing you do," he reassured the prep. "We want everyone to get out of here and no one to be hurt."

"It’s too late for that, I shot the cop, he's bleeding real bad."

"Then let us come to help him; I promise you no tricks, we'll just..."

"NO!" Steve was cut off by the vehement reply. "We let him go and you cops won't give a damn about anyone else. "

"That's not true, but you have to know that if he dies.." Steve paused and looked at his father. At his encouraging nod he continued "..you'll be facing capital charges; that means death by lethal injection is this state." 

"Ok ok, let me think." The connection was again cut off.

"What do you think?" Steve questioned his father. "Maybe I shouldn't have pushed"

"It's a gamble," Mark agreed. "If Johnson does die, they'll have nothing to lose, but it's probably his only chance . I don't think that kid is a born killer, but if he's backed into a corner all bets are off."

It was only a few minutes before the phone rang. This time, however, the young man on the other end sounded more authoritative, less uncertain. "I'll let him go, but you are going to come in and take his place"

"That is not an option," Steve stated firmly.

"Well make it one. You've got five minutes to get your ass in here or I start shooting hostages. Five minutes, you get that? I'll do it!"

As the increasingly agitated voice cut off, the silence in the van seemed deafening. Steve could feel the tension rolling off his father, but couldn't force himself to look his way.

"It’s against policy" said Adams bluntly. "Don't give them what they want"

"You got any better ideas, I'd love to hear them. We're working blind at the moment. We have no idea how many hostages there are or even how many perps for sure. We get Johnson out and he can hopefully give you that information. That kid is a powder keg waiting to go off. I'm not waiting for a bloodbath, and that's what we'll get if we go in with guns blaring. Go get the ambulance personnel standing by to evacuate Johnson."

As Adams left the van, Steve pulled a flack jacket on and started to remove his gun.

"Steve." It was just one quiet word uttered with almost no inflection, but it stopped him in his tracks. Slowly, he turned round to face his father.


	2. Chapter 2

Mark had been listening intently to both sides of the conversation, trying to work up a psychological profile of the captors from the meager information at his disposal, but at their demand for an exchange his attention shifted abruptly to his son. He hoped desperately that Steve would refuse this suicidal ultimatum, but in his heart he understood the answer was a foregone conclusion. He knew his son too well, knew that he took his "protect and serve" oath very seriously and would be unable to leave innocent civilians in jeopardy when his presence could ameliorate the situation. Watching closely, Mark could tell by the tilt of his chin the instant Steve accepted his role as an exchange hostage, and for a moment the scene swam before his eyes as fear gripped his limbs, making them unnaturally heavy. He watched in strange detachment as Steve made his preparations to leave, the horrific presentiment that it might be his last chance to talk to him finally jerking him out of his momentary paralysis.

"Steve" was the only word he managed before his throat seem to close up completely. As his son turned and met his eyes at last, a million things ran through his mind. He suddenly wondered when was the last time he had told his son that he loved him and was proud of him; but he found himself unable to utter words that seemed so final. He was NOT going to say goodbye to his son. It was the unspoken apology and understanding in Steve's eyes that helped him to pull himself together. He had always supported his son's decisions as a detective and greatly respected his abilities. Now was not the time to change that. He wanted Steve to be focused on his own survival, not worrying about his father.

"He's scared and highly unpredictable. Keep him as calm as possible.” The words felt useless, and he petered to a halt and for a minute just stared intently at his son, almost as if he was trying to memorize those features that were more familiar than his own.

Steve was equally at a loss for words. His father was looking pale and drawn, and he hated the fact that he was largely responsible. He knew how hard this would be for his father and regretted bitterly that he had to be at the scene instead of tucked in bed unaware of the situation until it was resolved. Wanting to say something reassuring, but unable to find anything that was not a trite platitude, he fell back on the immediate practicalities of the situation. He affixed a microphone to the shirt under the jacket. “You’ll be able to hear our conversation with this, but it only works one way.” He paused, then said “Here, take this.” He held out the phone in both hands. “You’ve always been good at calming agitated patients. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have on the other end.”

Reluctantly, Mark took the phone. “Be careful,” was all he could find to say. Steve nodded and with a last twisted smile, he left the trailer, pausing to speak to Adams at the barricade. From the glance in his direction, Mark surmised that he was the topic of the conversation. It wasn’t difficult to guess that his son was ensuring his safety in his absence.

"OK Dad, tell them I'm coming in."

As Mark watched him move past the police line into the open area in front of the store, he looked terrifyingly alone. No one was more aware than Mark how vulnerable the human body was, how much damage a bullet could do. Ruthlessly suppressing his fear, knowing the next few minutes were the most perilous, Mark took a deep breath, unconsciously imitating his son's actions earlier, before initiating contact.

"Who's this? Where's the other guy? Is he coming?"

"My name’s Mark; Lieutenant Sloan is on his way. We're all ready to make the exchange. Hold on." Mark held his hand over the mouthpiece, leaned out the door, and gave his son the thumbs up. "They're ready for you Steve. Just..... be careful," he repeated, more for his own benefit than his son’s knowing Steve could no longer hear him.

He watched, holding his breath, as Steve slowly opened the door and stepped inside, then changed his focus from visual to auditory. The line was crackly, but the voices came over clear.

First the gunman's voice high and jittery "Don't try anything," then Steve, sounding more calm and assured that Mark knew he was really feeling.

"Easy, I'm not going to try anything. I'm going to move over to the officer ......he's alive, but I need to get him out of here now. I'm going to call in 2 paramedics. They'll load him on to a gurney then leave, OK?"

Mark got a brief glimpse of his son as he opened the door and waved in the waiting paramedics "Take it real slow, no sudden moves. These two guys are fairly nervous"

Mark took mental note of the number of gunmen, an obvious message to him from Steve, and moved over to check on the injured policeman as he emerged and was moved to the ambulance. His leg was soaked with blood and he was unconscious from the resulting anoxia. Knowing how important it was to debrief the officer as to the conditions inside the building, Mark called ahead to Jesse and filled him in on the proceedings. Jesse was understandably horrified at his best friend's predicament and wanted to come down to offer at least moral support. Mark persuaded him to stay at the hospital and work on Johnson, promising to update him as often as possible. Throughout this flurry of action, Mark remained constantly aware through the microphone of Steve's efforts to end the hostage situation. He got back into the van, needing the quiet to concentrate on the information coming through to him, desperate to find some way to help his son.

 

Steve entered the building quite aware of the perilous nature of his position. It was hard to ignore the gun pointed at his head as he stared straight down the barrel but, keeping his hands high and his manner unthreatening, he arranged for the removal of Johnson. Before acknowledging the firepower turned in his direction, he checked out the immediate environment. There were 4 hostages: the storekeeper - an elderly man looking more resigned than frightened, his young clerk and a middle-aged couple sitting with their arms around each other. They had been herded to the back of the store under a gun held by a boy maybe 15 years old who, despite his attempt at bravado, looked more scared than his hostages. 

Steve paid him little attention. It was the older boy, almost certainly from the similarity in looks his older brother, who would be the problem. Pacing nervously around the floor, keeping his gun pointed straight at Steve, his agitation was palpable.

“I’m not going let them put us in jail. I’ll kill everyone first. This wasn’t supposed to happen. We just needed the money, no one was supposed to get hurt. What’s going to happen, what should I do?” The torrent of words broke off, and Steve jumped into the breach.

“The best thing to do is to give me the gun. Noone else has to get hurt. If you end this now, I’ll speak to the judge on your behalf. I can’t make any promises, but ..”

“NO! What if that cop dies, they’ll try us as adults. I’m not going to let anyone hurt Tim”

Correctly surmising that the younger brother was Tim, Steve pointed out that the longer the hostage situation continued, the greater the risk to all involved.

The gun swung round to menace him again. “Take that off,” Rick pointed at his flack jacket. “Put it on him,” he indicated his brother with a nod of his head.

With the barrel aimed at the center of his forehead, the jacket seemed more than a little irrelevant, and Steve made no demur, merely assisting the younger boy into the protective clothing. Up close he noted bruises on his face and another on his shoulder, disappearing under his shirt. It was that sight coupled with his dejected demeanor that made Steve ask gently, “Are you all right?” The kid looked surprised at his concern and nodded shyly in response. 

While he was over against the wall, Steve also checked on the condition of all the hostages and, with a few words to each, tried to allay their fears. Seeing their frightened faces ignited a spark of anger deep inside, and he moved back to confront Rick. Ignoring the weapon now pointed at his chest, he forced the teenager to look him in the eye.

“What do you want, Rick? How do you want this to end? What do you think you can achieve here?”

“We needed the money, none of this was supposed to happen. We just had to get out of town.”

Something clicked in the back of Steve’s mind, a connection he didn’t want to make. “What about your family?” he asked, watching the response carefully. He knew he was right at the flash of fear and hatred that crossed the teenager’s face.

“You don’t understand! We can’t go back there and I can’t go to jail. Who would take care of Tim? They’ll send him back, and this time he’ll kill him.”

“Your father?”

The boy nodded miserably. Steve suddenly felt a fierce protectiveness for both these boys and an absolute determination to get both hostages and gunmen out of this standoff unhurt. He simply couldn’t imagine the horror of having the one person whom you should be able to trust unreservedly be an object of fear and loathing in your life. Not for the first time, he was deeply grateful for his own father.

“Let me help you” he said, his sincerity obvious. “I can promise that neither of you will go back to an abusive home. But this has to end now.”

“What should I do?” It was a cry of despair from a teenager needing guidance.

 

Back in the van, Mark was encouraged by Rick’s growing dependence on Steve’s advice. It was obvious that the two young men were far from desperados, and with the first tendrils of trust developing between them and his son, Mark was hopeful that given time, Steve would be able to talk them into surrendering without further bloodshed. He looked at his watch and was surprised to see that Steve had only been inside for 30 minutes. It was possibly the longest half hour of his life. Every muscle in his body had tensed up in anticipation of a possible gunshot and was now setting up a clamour for attention, the exhaustion of the previous 24 hours competing with the preternatural alertness demanded by the situation. He stretched a little and, for the first time since the ordeal had started, he glanced outside the van. What he saw sent him jumping to his feet in horror. He had been so focused on listening to the drama coming through to him on the headphones that he had missed the arrival of the SWAT team. With guns at the ready, they were moving into position in the buildings surrounding the liquor store.

Mark flung open the door to the van, looking frantically for the man in charge. He reached Adams, who was staring morosely at the rapidly changing scene.

“What are they doing? We’ve got to give Steve more time. Stop them!”

As he started towards a large man directing operations on his handset, disaster struck. One of the SWAT team, climbing onto a balcony overlooking the roof of the liquor store, lost his balance as a piece of rotting wood gave way. He fell with a crash on the roof, his gun clattering down to land on the ground. The tableau froze for an instant in an unnatural silence that was broken almost immediately by the sound of an answering gunshot, and in a burst of static the microphone went dead.

“Oh God no!”


	3. Chapter 3

The single shot was followed by a fusillade of gunfire shattering more of the glass in the shopfront. Everyone ducked for cover except Mark, who was moving without conscious volition towards the building, impelled by the need to get to his son. He was rudely jerked to the ground and dragged back behind the cover of the cars. Momentarily dazed, he looked uncomprehendingly into the face of his rescuer. Adams scowled down at him “You get hurt, the Lieutenant’s going to kill me so stay put.” 

In the distance Mark heard shouts of “Pull back,” but he ignored the flow of movement around him. For several minutes he stayed on the ground, fighting for control, the echo of the first gunshot still ringing in his ears, not allowing himself to think of what it might mean. Then, pushing himself up stiffly, he asked Adams,

“Is that the man in charge of this debacle?”

“Yep, that’s the one. That’s Captain Reed.”

Mark didn’t try to contain his anger, but used it as a shield against his worst fears. He rounded on the large SWAT captain without preliminaries. “Were you aware that we had an officer inside that building who had forged a relationship with the gunmen and could quite likely have resolved the situation peaceably? You may very well have jeopardized his life and the lives of the hostages with your precipitous actions. 

Reed’s face darkened in anger, unaccustomed to criticism. “Who are you?”

Mark pulled out his credentials “My name is Dr. Mark Sloan; I’m a consultant for the police department and acting negotiator in this crisis.” He deliberately didn’t mention his relationship to Steve, knowing instinctively that if this man knew of his personal involvement, he would not be allowed to continue in his present role. 

“You have no jurisdiction here. In all likelihood, the cop inside is dead now. I’m going to end this before more hostages are killed.”

Only a lifetime of concealing his feelings from patients and their families prevented Mark from reacting visibly to this, but for a moment he couldn’t find the breath to respond, and Reed took the opportunity to reassert his command.

“I’m sorry, sir. We cannot allow any civilians in this area. You’ll have to leave now.” He motioned to one of his men. “Please escort Dr. Sloan out of here.” Dismissing Mark, he turned his back and picked up the blueprints to the surrounding area.

But Mark wasn’t that easily dismissed. He had no intention of leaving without his son. Most of his friends and acquaintances knew Mark as warm and easy-going, few people had seem him truly angry. Those who had would testify to it being a truly formidable sight. With his height and innate air of authority, he looked Reed frostily straight in the eye.

“No, sir. You will listen to me ; and I swear if your incompetent mishandling of this situation has resulted in any injury to the hostages, you will be looking for a new job by nightfall. Now I am going back to the van to try to reestablish contact, and you will keep your men out of sight. Do you understand me?”

Reed was clearly furious, unused to having his authority challenged, but was sufficiently intimidated as to be unsure of his next move. Stalemate reigned, as neither of the two men backed down, and all the officers in the vicinity tried not to show their fascination as the big burly cop was brought to a standstill by the elderly doctor.

The deadlock was broken by the arrival of a third party

“Is there a problem here?” 

“Chief Masters!” exclaimed Reed considerably surprised to see such an august person at what seemed a comparatively minor disturbance. Knowing the chief’s hardline reputation, he had no hesitation in replying, “No, sir, no problem, just this civilian here,” the words were spat out contemptuously “thinking he could do a cop’s job.”

Chief Masters raised one eyebrow. “I can’t think of anyone better qualified myself” he stated calmly “Dr. Sloan, would you please wait for me in the van.”

Mark retreated to the van, grateful for the Chief’s intervention. Behind him, judging by the his body language, the captain was receiving the dressing down of his life. As he closed the door behind him, Mark sank down on the car seat, his legs barely able to hold him. The confrontation had drained the little self-control he was maintaining, and in the privacy of the vehicle he closed his eyes, body shaking as he fought the fears so callously given voice by the SWAT officer. He held on to the telephone as if it were a lifeline, the only connection to his son. Steve was NOT dead, it was a possibility he couldn’t bring himself to entertain. Life without his son was just too painful to imagine.

A phone rang, and for an instant Mark’s heart skipped a beat thinking that the call was coming from inside the building, but it was his personal cell phone.

“Hello,” he answered shortly not wishing to talk to anyone in his present state of mind.

“Mark, its Jesse. I called to tell you that Johnson has regained consciousness. Are you all right, what’s going on? Have you heard from Steve?”

Never one to expose his deepest emotions, Mark found himself unable to explain the current situation to his young friend. To speak of it out loud would give it a reality he wasn’t prepared to face, and besides, he told himself, there was no point worrying Jesse unnecessarily. “Hi Jesse, there’s not much I can tell you at the moment. Steve’s still inside. Has Johnson said anything that might be of help?”

“He said there were 4 hostages in the back of the room when he left. He’s seen the 2 gunmen around before, doesn’t know their names but he thinks they’re local. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw one of them at a domestic disturbance call he went to recently.” 

“Thanks, Jesse, that could be helpful.” Promising again to call as soon as he knew something concrete, Mark rang off. He called Adams into the van and filled him in on the latest developments.

“OK, I’m on it; that could be a real lead as to their identities.” Adams disappeared to follow up on this information, and his stout figure was replaced by the rangy one of the Chief, who folded his long legs into the front seat. Characteristically, he came straight to the point.

“Steve is an experienced cop. What was he thinking going in there?”

“He was trying to save lives, a sentiment that seems sadly lacking in this department”, Mark flared up in defense of his son. 

The Chief looked at him consideringly. “Have you thought that it might be best if we sent in the SWAT team? If Steve is hurt, it could be the fastest way to resolve the situation and get him help.”

“Or it could get him killed. Chief, he may be my main concern, but there are also 4 other hostages whose lives are at stake, and we’re not talking about hardened criminals here, we’re talking about two young kids!” 

“Two young kids with guns.”

The Chief looked away and stared out the window, and for a moment there was silence. Few people knew that Masters owed the Sloans not only for his continuing presence as Chief, but also for the unwitting part he had played in the hell Trainer had put them through. He was unsure of the best way to help them now. He knew Mark’s keen mind and calm and compassionate manner normally made him a natural at defusing volatile situations. However, at present he looked haggard and worn, close to the limits of his endurance.

“Mark, is this really something you think you should do?”

“It’s something I have to do,” Mark replied with passionate intensity. It might be the last thing he could do for his son. “I’ve already talked to them; they know my voice. I’m the best person to do this.” 

Masters nodded. “Then do it. I’ll prevent interference.”

Left alone, Mark sat for a moment staring at the phone in his hands, while he marshaled his thoughts. For Steve’s sake, he had to be objective, detach himself from his emotions, all the while knowing that the man on the other end of the line might be his son’s murderer.

Calling on the considerable self-discipline necessary for his profession, Mark dialed the phone, praying that he was making the right decision in continuing to negotiate.


	4. Chapter 4

The sound of a telephone ringing unceasingly from far away penetrated Steve’s consciousness, and he wondered fuzzily why his father didn’t answer it. Further sensations slowly invaded his awareness. He was lying on a cold hard floor, his head hurt, as did his back and right side. For a moment he lay unmoving, searching his mind for answers, then memories flooded back in a cascading series of images; the radio call, the van, his father. His father! Steve started to sit up, but at the jolt of pain searing through his back he aborted the attempt with a gasp.

“Don’t try to move, you’ve been shot,” an unfamiliar voice advised unnecessarily as he had already recalled that as well. At the abrupt noise overhead and appearance of the gun falling past the window, Rick had swung his weapon towards the roof, panicked. In an effort to avert a crisis, Steve had launched himself at the boy, successfully disarming him and had been in the process of subduing him when a smashing blow had struck him in the back on the right side. He had hardly had time to register that he had been shot as the force had driven him to the floor, where he had struck his head. Now he mentally cursed himself for his stupidity. In focusing on the older boy, he had made a potentially fatal error in dismissing the threat offered by the younger teen. It was Tim who had shot him. 

“How long was I out?” he ignored the advice and gingerly eased himself into a sitting position. He missed the reply as a dull roaring seemed to fill his ears, and he narrowly avoided collapsing to the floor again by bracing himself against the wall. When the stabbing pain in his back had sufficiently eased, and the room had stopped spinning, he took a look at his surroundings. While he was unconscious, he and the other hostages had been moved into a back storage room. Cases of canned goods and packing crates filled most of the area. He focused somewhat blurrily on the woman kneeling beside him. “I’m sorry, I missed that. Can you tell me what happened?”

“I’m Claire.” She nodded towards the other hostages. “My husband Jeff, and that’s Mr. Castos, he owns the place, and Billy. It was the young one, Tim, who shot you.” She paused thoughtfully. “Although to be honest, I don’t think he meant to. He just panicked when you jumped his brother. He was really horrified when he saw what he’d done. They moved us in here about half an hour ago, and we haven’t seen them since.”

Steve nodded. He looked down at himself and saw that he had been wrapped with makeshift bandages. “Your work?” he asked with a faint grin.

She assented, expression serious. “I used to be a nurse. You were lucky. The bullet hit at an angle, smashed a rib and exited your side. But it’s important you don’t move too much. That rib could easily penetrate your lung, you’re lucky it hasn’t already. Besides, you’ve lost a lot of blood and somehow, in all the activity you whacked yourself hard on the head.”

Steve was familiar enough with both sensations to have no doubts as to the veracity of that statement. As he assessed the situation, he became aware that the phone was still ringing, and a frisson of anxiety ran through him.

“Why aren’t they answering the phone?” he asked rhetorically. Police procedure made another SWAT attempt much more likely if they couldn’t establish contact. He thought of his father and almost hoped he wasn’t on the other end. His heart twisted at the mental image of him desperately trying to ascertain his son’s fate. He knew Mark would never give up on him, but the uncertainty must be putting his father through hell. He had to find a way to let him know he was alive.

The latter thought pushed him shakily to his feet. He levered himself up, gratefully accepting an arm from Claire. At her censorious look, he reassured her wryly “I don’t intend to do any aerobics, but I have to talk to the boys.”

“You’re going out there! Are you crazy?” 

“I have to. Look, after I’ve gone, I want you to barricade this place. There’s plenty of stuff in here to do it effectively. Then just keep your heads down. Those kids don’t want to hurt you; they’re just scared and are running out of options.”

Satisfied that the hostages would follow his instructions and were as safe as he could make them, Steve turned his attention to the teenage gunmen. He banged on the door, but regretted it instantly as the reverberations of the abrupt movement threatened to send him to his knees. Only Claire’s steady hand kept him on his feet. “Ok, that was stupid,” he acknowledged wryly for her ears alone. He raised his voice, “I need to talk to you, Rick. Open this door.” Listening closely he heard footsteps approaching and, with a gentle push, sent Claire back to join her husband.

The door was opened cautiously, and Steve didn’t miss the look of relief that crossed the boy’s face as he saw him standing there alive and relatively unharmed. He was motioned out into the store, and the door was shut firmly behind him. He attempted to conceal the full extent of his injury as he walked across the room, knowing better than to show weakness. At the moment, both boys were still looking on him as a figure of authority. Tim was sufficiently cowed to give up, but his hold over Rick was tenuous at best and the older brother could balk at any time. Neither boy seemed inclined to meet his eye.

“What do you want, cop?” blustered Rick, needing to feel that he was still in control.

Steve’s concern for his father overrode his tact. “You need to answer the phone and start a dialogue with the police,” he told them bluntly. “If you don’t, chances are they’ll think you’ve already harmed the hostages, and they’ve got nothing to lose by charging this place and shooting anyone offering resistance.”

He hoped a reminder of the potential consequences might shock the boys into compliance. Tim hunched further in on himself, and Rick paled, gazing at the telephone as if were a snake coiled to strike.

“I’ll answer it if you want,” offered Steve, trying to hide his eagerness to do just that. Nothing would reassure his father as much as hearing his voice and, to be honest he had just as strong a desire to hear his father. Mark should have been safe in the van, but having his father anywhere near the outbreak of gunfire brought his protective instincts to the fore, and the outside chance that he had been caught in the crossfire was nagging at him.

However, this suggestion was summarily rejected as Rick snatched up the phone and bellowed, “What?”

Steve remained standing by dint of sheer determination and braced legs, and  
listened to the rather unenlightening one-ended conversation, consisting on Rick’s part of a series of no’s and one airy “Everybody’s fine” which wouldn’t have convinced anyone. He had no way of knowing if it was his father on the other end, and his frustration at his inability to contact him was growing.

“Somehow I don’t think that helped much,” he commented dryly as Rick put the phone down, 

“Well, what the hell should I do?” Rick’s frustration and fear were causing his temper to flare wildly. However Steve’s patience was also running low, the vicious pain in his back sapping his strength. He had to push for a resolution before he collapsed in a heap on the floor. 

“I’ve told you before, your only chance is to give up. They’re not going to let you just walk away. End this before someone actually gets killed.”

“Just shut up!” Rick resumed his pacing, mumbling with increasing agitation. "They’ll have to let us go if we use the hostages as shields. I’ll tell them I want a car, and if they try to follow us I’ll kill them. I saw it in a movie. We put blankets over our heads so they can’t tell who are the hostages . We can do it, that’s the answer. I’m going to get us out of here.” Rick’s rather manic euphoria at his decision suggested a growing mental instability, and Steve sensed the final confrontation approaching as Rick moved over to the barricaded door. He tried the handle, used his weight, then, as realization dawned, he went berserk, kicking and hitting the door and screaming obscenities. That lasted several minutes, but as his first fury was spent his anger was redirected at a more convenient target. 

“You son of a .....!” He strode towards Steve, his eyes blazing and his gun straight up until it was an inch from Steve’s face. For a moment, Steve really thought he would pull the trigger, but, meeting his eyes steadily, he saw the flicker of indecision. They stayed frozen in that postion for several seconds until Rick threw his gun down with a scream of frustration and launched himself bodily at Steve. Unprepared for the attack and in a weakened state, Steve was unable to keep his feet. He fell backwards onto the floor, Rick on top of him. As he hit the ground, he felt an agonising stab and something give way inside him. Before he lost consciousness, the ironic thought crossed his mind that this attack could prove as fatal as a bullet. As darkness overtook him, his last thought was a mental apology to his father. “Sorry, Dad.”


	5. Chapter 5

Mark rubbed his hand tiredly above his eyes. The constant tension and fatigue had translated into a full-blown headache nagging behind his eyes. He had made little headway with the gunmen, making contact only twice in the last 2 hours. For forty minutes he had let the phone ring, curtailing his impatience, but his anxiety mounting with every unanswered chime. The short, totally unsatisfactory conversations he had had left him torn with indecision. The training of a lifetime pushed him to a peaceful solution, but the awareness that Steve could be hurt forced him to consider encouraging the Chief to end the conflict in any way possible. 

He looked across at the Chief who was sharing the van with him, listening in on the spare headset.

“This isn’t working. I need to get in there and talk to them in person. I can’t negotiate this on the phone. I can’t build up trust from out here.” He struggled to prevent his emotions from showing in his voice.

The Chief shook his head firmly, although there was sympathy behind the normally unreadable expression. “No chance, I’m not giving them another hostage, Mark. I know how difficult this is for you but, until there are positive signs that they are prepared to cooperate, I’m not putting any more people at risk. Besides, don’t you think that Steve anticipated you might try that? I understand he took measures to make sure you go nowhere near that building. Adams has very strict instructions.” He smiled quizzically inviting Mark to join him in his appreciation of Steve’s familiarity with his father’s proclivities. However, Mark was in no mood for humour of any kind.

As he tried to summon up an argument that would have more chance of success, the door of the van was jerked open and the excited face of Sergeant Adams appeared in the doorway. “I found it Doc. Oh, sorry Chief, I didn’t realize you were here.” He held out a police report to Mark. “Their names are Richard and Timothy Evans.” He stopped as he realized Mark wasn’t listening to him any more.

Mark scanned the report eagerly with a practiced eye. “Their mother died after a ‘fall’ last month. Police suspected foul play but couldn’t prove anything. There had been several calls from neighbours suspecting abuse of both boys and mother, but when the police responded, all family members denied everything.” He looked up at Masters. “Poor kids were probably too terrified to talk; the older boy is 17 and the youngest is just 14. We can work with this, but I need to be able to offer them a deal. I got the feeling from listening to Steve’s conversation with them that the older kid is looking out for the youngest. I need to appeal to that protectiveness. If I can convince him that Tim will not be charged with anything, since he has no record, and that he won’t be returned to his father there’s a good chance he’ll give up.” Mark felt energy return with the onset of prospective action.

Masters nodded “I think I can guarantee the DA will go for that.”

Mark turned back to phone, his mind working frantically. These boys had no reason to trust anyone, but he had to find a way to connect with them, to chisel out a relationship. Yet even divulging the fact that he knew their real names and family circumstances could conceivably spook them into further rash behaviour. He tried to put himself in their place and felt a moment’s crushing anger against their father. He couldn’t imagine any parent wanting to hurt their kids. He would have offered his life for Steve’s without a moment’s hesitation, and the thought of actually hurting his son made him feel physically sick. 

He dialed the now familiar number, praying for an answer, and was pleasantly surprised at a response after the fifth ring.

“Rick, I need you to listen to me.” He wanted the boys attention before he hung up again.

“What?” The tone was lackluster, a sharp contrast to his early defiance, and it set off alarm bells in Mark’s mind.

“We know about your father and what happened to your mother, what really happened to your mother. We can help you and Tim, if you’ll just let us.”

There was silence on the other end, but the phone line stayed open. Mark took this as an encouraging sign and forged ahead.

‘With your testimony, we can make sure that your father doesn’t hurt you or anyone else. I can promise you your brother will be safe, he won’t go to prison or back to your father. I’m not going to lie to you, I don’t think there is any way you can avoid all charges, but I’m sure the judge will be lenient considering the circumstances.”

For a moment there was no reply, and then a flat voice responded, “It’s too late for that.”

The words fell like lead into the claustrophobic atmosphere of the van. A chill spread though Mark, and he forced his next words out between numb lips. “What do you mean?”

“The cop. I think he’s dying.”

Mark closed his eyes briefly as an overwhelming anguish gripped his heart; but it was followed, almost instantly by an equally strong denial. The boy had said ‘dying’, not dead, and every fibre of his being rejected the latter outcome.

As he opened his eyes, he saw Masters reaching for the phone and the intent behind this gesture galvanized him into action.

“I’m a doctor, Rick, I’m coming in right now.” Closing the line, he jumped out of the van and ran towards Steve’s car. He grabbed his medical bag and was turning toward the building when his way was blocked by the Chief.

Mark met his eyes with unflinching determination. “Don’t even think of stopping me now, Chief. I’ll go through you and every other cop in this place if I have to.” For the second time that day, Mark faced down a stronger man with the sheer force of his personality. The Chief had no doubt that there was no stopping him except through brute force.

“You have ten minutes. After that I’m sending in the SWAT team, so keep your head down.”

Mark nodded, his mind only marginally on the conversation. He thumbed the redial button to inform Rick he was at the door and barely waited for his confirmation before he entered, sliding the telephone into his pocket with the connection still open. 

His eyes adjusted to the difference in light and he could see both boys at the back of the store, but no hostages. As he moved forward past the checkout and shelves, he could see the rest of the store and then, finally, his son lying crumpled and bloody on the floor. In an instant, he was by his side, his hands moving gently over his body assessing his condition. Steve’s ghastly pallor and cold moist skin, coupled with his obvious difficulty breathing, made a diagnosis simple, and Mark know that the build up of pressure in his chest cavity meant without treatment he likely only had minutes to live. He needed supplies from the ambulance now, and there was just one thing preventing him from getting them.

Hating to leave Steve’s side for even a minute, he forced himself away to stand in front of Rick. He held out his hand. “There’s very little time, give me your gun NOW!”

Rick still hesitated, not pointing the gun at Mark, but clearly loathe to surrender it. Every muscle tense, painfully aware of both the Chief’s ten-minute deadline and, most importantly, his son’s life ticking away, Mark spoke with grim intensity.

“Either shoot me or give it to me.” Mark tried to suppress his anger towards the boys who held Steve’s life in the balance and his mounting fear as he listened to his son’s rasping breaths, dreading the possibility that they might stop altogether. 

Support came from a surprising place. Tim moved forward and held his gun out to Mark, looking pleadingly at his older brother. “Please Rick, I don’t want him to die.” All the fight went out of Rick. He handed over his weapon and sat down heavily on the floor, head buried in his hands.

Mark instantly moved back to Steve, pausing in his ministrations only to call the waiting men outside.

“Chief, I’ve got both the guns, the boys are unarmed. Send in an ambulance crew with a pneumothorax kit now.”

The next ten minutes passed in a blur for Mark. He was peripherally aware of the boys being led away and the hostages being released, but his attention was focused exclusively on his son.

He needed to insert a chest tube to remove the accumulated blood and release the build up of pressure in the chest. It was a relatively simple technique and one Mark had performed many times, sometimes in less than ideal conditions and without proper equipment. But warring with the relief of finally being able to take effective action after the agonizing hours of waiting was the subliminal horror of operating on his own son. He remembered the time Steve had been shot by Oz Tatum and how he tried to enter the operating room, desperate to do something to help, but Amanda had prevented him. This time, not only could he do something but he had to and doubts were suddenly haunting him. Six hours ago he had judged himself unfit to get behind the wheel of the car. Now, after the tremendous pressure he had been under, he intended to conduct an operation. For a moment, the scene spun before his eyes and he clenched his treacherously shaking hands into fists. He didn’t have time for the luxury of falling apart now, his son needed him. He gave himself a savage mental shake, concentrating his waning physical resources and focusing purely on the job to be done, shutting out the knowledge of whom he was doing it to.

Despite his misgivings, the procedure went smoothly and quickly, leaving Steve breathing easier, though still frighteningly pale. Mark knew he was not out of the woods yet, as hemorrhagic shock had set it. The ambulance crew helped lift him onto a gurney and into the ambulance, and then they were on their way to the hospital. Mark called ahead to prepare Jesse. Part of him felt it was unfair of him to expect the young doctor to perform surgery on his best friend. He knew many excellent doctors, but in an admittedly irrational emotional reaction, he felt that Jesse was the only person he trusted with his son right now.

They arrived at the hospital, and the familiar competence displayed by Jesse and the team of nurses did much to reassure Mark as Steve disappeared behind the doors of the operating room. His heart ached to follow, but he knew he would only be in the way, especially in his weary condition. Unaware of the concerned glances thrown his way by some of the staff, he made his way almost automatically to his office, yearning for some isolation to compose himself.

He couldn’t stop shaking, and he wondered clinically if it was the emotional trauma or physical exhaustion. He desperately needed to sleep, but couldn’t bring himself to rest before knowing Steve had successfully made it through the operation. His exhausted mind was plagued by the notion that he’d somehow let Steve down, that he should have been able to resolve the situation earlier. He sank into a sort of fugue state, unconscious of his physical self and the passing of time, but his mind relentlessly replaying the events of the last few hours. His reverie was broken by Amanda’s abrupt entrance into the room.

“Mark, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She stopped, shocked by the strained, grey look on his face. She had rarely seen him so dispirited and listless. “Steve?” she faltered, for a moment fearing the worst.

Mark snapped back into the present, hastening to reassure her. “I’m sorry, Amanda, I was a million miles away. I think he’ll be fine, the bullet wound wasn’t too serious.” He tried to ignore his own internal voice of worry which suggested all the things that could go wrong. He attempted a smile. “I’m just tired; my days of pulling 36-hour shifts are long in the past. I’m not used to it.”

“Mark, when did you last eat,” she asked him gently.

“I really don’t remember, but I don’t think I could keep anything down at the moment anyway. Honestly, Amanda, I’ll be just fine. As soon as I’ve seen Steve, I’ll take a nap and be right as rain in the morning.”

Strangely enough, the normalcy of the conversation helped to dispel some of the horror that exhaustion had allowed his mind to dwell on. He suddenly felt more optimistic. “You know, a cup of something hot right now actually sounds good. Thanks, Amanda.” This time his smile was genuine and, relieved to see some life back in his eyes, Amanda took his arm and guided him down to the waiting room to have some hot soup while waiting for Jesse.

They didn’t have to wait too long and any lasting apprehension disappeared at the sight of his smiling countenance. He sat down in a chair opposite Mark, accepting the cup held out by Amanda. “He’ll be fine, Mark,” he said without preliminaries. “He’s lost a lot of blood, but the bullet wound itself wasn’t that serious. Once the lung was re-inflated, everything was fairly routine. He’ll have to take it easy for a while” He laughed. “Good luck with that one, but he should be home in a couple of days.” He paused, looking with some concern at Mark. “Actually, you know, you look worse than he does. You need to go home and get some sleep. My shift is officially over, I can give you a ride if you want.”

He sensed the negative reply before it was given and forestalled the next question. “They’re setting Steve up in a room right now. Why don’t you go and see him, then I’ll give you a ride home.”

Mark smiled ruefully. This was hardly a novel situation, and he supposed it wasn’t that difficult for good friends like these to predict his reactions by now. He thanked Jesse, and the two of them escorted him upstairs to Steve’s room but let him enter alone.

The monitors and drips may have looked daunting to the uninitiated, but Mark read their information at a glance and dismissed them, focusing intently on his son. Steve did indeed look much improved from his recollection of their last interaction, although he was still pale. Mark gently reached out and touched Steve’s forehead with the back of his hand, ostensibly checking for fever. Satisfied, he pulled up a chair and sat, content to just watch his son sleep.

When Amanda and Jesse entered fifteen minutes later, Mark was fast asleep, his head pillowed on his right arm resting next to Steve’s on the bed. He looked at peace with the world, even if his position couldn’t have been comfortable. 

“We’d better wake him,” Jesse decided reluctantly. “His back will be killing him if he stays like that.”

Amanda disagreed. From her time spent with Mark earlier, she had a feeling this was exactly what he needed. “Let’s leave him for now. We can set up a cot and move him later. Come on, you’ve had a long day too; I’ll buy dinner.” Eager as always for free food, Jesse accepted and the two departed leaving behind a scene of healing serenity as father and son slept on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors note: I had thought of ending the story there, but Nonny asked for another chapter to wrap up some loose ends so I’ve written a conclusion for her.


	6. Chapter 6

It was the bright sunlight shining through the blinds the next morning that woke Steve. He lay still for a minute, staring at the ceiling, trying to reconcile the confusing images of pain and violence that were his last memories with the soothing serenity of his present surroundings. Experimentally, he moved slightly, and was pleasantly surprised when his movements were met by only a dull ache. He knew he was pushing his luck, but he tried to sit up anyway, bothered by an untenable feeling of restlessness. As he shifted position, his eyes caught on his father, fast asleep in a cot beside his bed, and he relaxed back against the pillows. He scanned what he could see of Mark, but there were no obvious injuries, and he seemed to be resting peacefully. The last residue of tension departed, leaving him half asleep and feeling remarkably contented. He dozed for an indeterminate length of time before rousing again at the entrance of a nurse. Seeing he was awake, she soon departed to fetch Jesse.

Jesse bounced into the room “So, you’re awake at last; I thought....” Steve quieted him, indicating his sleeping father. “Sorry, I thought you’d never wake up. How are you feeling?” Although the last question was considerably lower in volume, the damage had been done and Mark started to stir. He yawned and stretched, moving stiffly at first, but as he saw Steve awake and alert he smiled, swung his legs over the side of the cot and stood up beside his son’s bed.

Automatically assessing his son’s condition, he asked, “How’re you feeling?”

“That’s what I was just trying to ascertain,” said Jesse without rancor. “Mark, why don’t you have a shower and grab a bite to eat while I check Steve over.”

“Go on, Dad,” Steve urged. He expected the exam to be uncomfortable and didn’t want his father to suffer through it with him.

Recognizing the concern behind the request, Mark reluctantly complied knowing Jesse would fill him in later. When he returned 20 minutes later, feeling much refreshed, Steve was sitting up in bed, albeit a shade paler, but tucking enthusiastically into his breakfast.

“He’s doing fine, Mark. No sign of infection, and he’s certainly got a good appetite,” Jesse reassured Mark.

Steve paused between mouthfuls, ready to launch an interrogation of his own into the events of the previous day, when he was interrupted by the entrance of two familiar figures. He wasn’t surprised to see Amanda, but he had not anticipated the arrival of Chief Masters.

Mark quickly filled him in on the Chief’s role in the hostage negotiation.

“I don’t even know what happened. Are the kids alright?”

Masters smiled enigmatically. “They’re fine. Your father had no difficulty talking them down quite peaceably.”

Steve looked at his dad, pride evident in his eyes. “I had no doubts you could manage it Dad. How did you persuade them to give up?” 

Mark opened his mouth to explain, but was beaten to it by a smooth interjection by the Chief. “I believe his exact words were ‘shoot me or give me the gun.’” This conversational equivalent of a hand grenade thrown into the room was followed by a dumbstruck silence, then a crack of laughter from Jesse, echoed by an ominous “What!” from Steve. Mark looked at Masters, his mouth now hanging open in shock, as he wondered if the Chief knew how deeply into trouble his words had dropped him. From the bland expression on Master’s face he knew exactly, and had intended this as a subtle form of revenge for Mark’s actions outside the store the day before.

“Its not how it sounds,” he hastily tried to extract himself from the approaching storm.

“What were you doing inside the building anyway?” Steve’s demeanour did not bode well for Sergeant Adams. Mark winced. It had been a while since he had heard his son’s “you’re not a cop” speech directed at him.

“It wasn’t like that......I wasn’t really in any.....” Mark floundered, his usual verbal facility deserting him. He risked a glance at his son, but his glowering countenance did nothing to reassure him or enable him to coherently justify his actions. Caught off guard, his thoughts were disordered, the emotional turmoil of the previous day at odds with the present tranquility and familiarity of his surroundings. He tried again, stammering a few more disjointed phrases before sputtering to a stop. Another quick look at Steve revealed a twinkle in his eye as he enjoyed the spectacle of his father squirming like an errant schoolboy. Mark immediately changed tack.

“It’s not like you set me a good example,” he said accusingly, the echoes of a long-ago confrontation reverberating in his mind. He saw a glimmer of recognition in Steve’s eyes as his son picked up his cue and obligingly completed the role reversal.

“Don’t think we won’t be talking about this later.” His tone was a perfect mimicry of Mark’s distant attempt at stern parenting. They grinned at each other in perfect understanding, 40 or so years of shared experiences and love creating a bond that couldn’t be damaged, never mind broken.

Steve knew he could never stay mad at his father. When he had first become a detective, he had tried hard to keep his father out of investigations, fearing for his safety, but he had soon come to realize the futility of such actions. However, his father’s blithe disregard for his own safety and tendency to jump into perilous situations with both feet still had the ability to terrify him. He remembered with a clarity undimmed by the passing years, the time Mark had driven himself into the middle of a forest fire to find the evidence to identify a murderer, and he remembered still more clearly the moment of utter despair when he believed he couldn’t reach him and save him. However, he recognised that then, as so often since, it was Mark’s curiosity and his sense of justice and compassion that drove him to such lengths, and Steve knew he wouldn’t change anything about his father for the world. So now he merely maintained a steely determination to extricate his father from whatever danger his enthusiasm had led him into.

“Next time I’ll use my handcuffs,” he threatened, only half joking. Then he turned to the Chief, who had been watching the proceedings with a sardonic half smile on his face. More soberly he asked ,“What’s going to happen to the boys? They’re not bad kids. Shooting me was as much as accident as anything and I would hate to see the full force of the law descending on them.”

“Social Services is placing Tim in foster care for now. As for Rick,” the Chief shook his head, “only time will tell. Well, I’m glad to see you’re doing well. I’ll send someone along to get your statements soon and, Lieutenant, I expect to see you back at work in......?” He paused expectantly for the doctors to fill in. Steve’s “a week” was overridden by a chorus of “two weeks” from the assembled doctors. He gave Steve a sympathetic nod and confirmed “two weeks” then let himself out of the door.

Steve looked disgusted. “I don’t need to stay here for two weeks,” he told Jesse firmly.

“Of course you don’t,” agreed Jesse lightly but quickly extinguished Steve’s relieved smile by following up with “but no strenuous activity for two weeks. In the meantime, while you’re here, you will stay quiet or I’ll be the one using handcuffs.”

“So what am I supposed to do for 2 weeks?”

Amanda pulled out a deck of cards from her pocket with a flourish. “Poker time!”

“Not again,” Jesse groaned. “I still owe you about 200 jelly beans from last time.”

“You’ve just got to work on that poker face, Jesse. Practice makes perfect.”

“Let’s raise the stakes,” suggested Steve. “We’ll play for those mini chocolate eggs instead. I love those.”

“Ha, what makes you think you’ll win?” scoffed Amanda. “I couldn’t eat all the chocolate I’d win.”

“You could give it to the boys,” suggested Mark, grateful that her distraction seemed to be working. He deftly removed the deck from her hands and shuffled dextrously.

“I don’t let my kids get addicted to junk food,” Amanda said virtuously and not exactly truthfully.

“Are you insinuating its my fault that Steve has such bad taste in food?” Mark asked, deliberately provocative.

“There’s nothing wrong with my taste,” Steve protested.

“Not if you’re an orangatang,” Jesse interjected.

“Aren’t they vegetarians?”

“OK, so I picked the wrong animal, but the concept was right.”

The amicable bickering continued as Mark dealt the cards. But despite the casual insults peppering the conversation, any hospital personnel passing by would have seen four heads bent together over the bed in a close circle of friendship and belonging.


End file.
